


Suck It and See

by breathe_in_your_dust



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU: Different First Meeting, M/M, Song fic, Suicidal Thoughts, tw: mugging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-17
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 18:31:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4359746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathe_in_your_dust/pseuds/breathe_in_your_dust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Sherlock Holmes meets John Watson, it's raining. </p>
<p>John and Sherlock saved each other's lives, and neither of them know it.</p>
<p>Based off of the album Suck It and See by the Arctic Monkeys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Suck It and See

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there! This is my first official work for this fandom! I really want to start writing stories based off of my favorite albums, it's just and idea that hasn't left me alone... so this happened. Anyway, here's the song this chapter was based off of https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tvHz5Rti0cU  
> Please message me tips, suggestions, anything.  
> Un beta'd and also written at 2 am... sorry.

He’s Thunderstorms

The first time Sherlock Holmes met John Watson, it was pouring rain. It was the kind of rain that drove people out of the streets and inside to their cozy sitting rooms for a nice cuppa. John Watson was not one of these people, and neither was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock, being the posh git that he is, was following the tracks of a murderer in a particularly shitty end of town in one of his fine tailored suits and thick Belstaff coat with the collar turned up against the chill of the wind. To say he didn’t fit in the area would be a monumental understatement, but Sherlock didn’t catch on, and continued walking across the grimy, cracked pavement in his Italian leather shoes.

Needless to say, he was promptly pulled into a shady alley and shoved up against a slimy brick wall with a rusty switchblade at his throat. The man wielding the blade seemed to have the same number of proper words in his vocabulary as rotten teeth in his mouth. Cold adrenaline flooded through Sherlock’s veins as he attempted to struggle, only to find the blade pressing harder against his skin.

“Don’ you try nuffin, or I’ll cut yer pretty throat,” the man hissed as he began to pat Sherlock down with his free hand in search of his wallet. Sherlock held as still as he possibly could, feeling the drip of rainwater fall on his face and the back of his neck causing goosebumps to erupt all down his arms.

John Watson was sitting in his tiny, empty bedsit with his gun to his head when he heard the plinking of rain against the window. While rain was hardly uncommon in London, he’d hardly witnessed any rain during his time in Afghanistan. That rain against the window paused his hand. Before he knew it, the safety was switched back on the gun and it once again rested on the bare desk before him. Strange as it was, the rain seemed to quiet the screaming in his head of the soldiers who’d died under his hands, of himself as the bullet tore through his shoulder. He wanted to die, that much was simple, but he couldn’t die without feeling the London rain one last time. 

Tucking his gun into the back of his ill-fitting jeans and pulling on his frayed jacket, John Watson stepped out into the chilly rain, ignoring his limp and the ache in his shoulder. He felt the droplets in his hair drip down his face, off the tip of his nose, and slide down his ears. It was divine. He continued to limp down the street for a short time before he caught sight of a man pressed to a wall, looking bloody terrified, with what appeared to be a knife to his throat. 

His spine stiffened and he felt his tongue trace his bottom lip slowly. He approached the man, reaching behind for his gun, and making eye contact with the pale stranger. John drifted up right behind the mugger before cocking the gun in his ear. The mugger froze.

“Well mate, it appears you have a choice. You either let the man go, or I splatter your brains against this wall here. Up to you.” John spoke softly, command evident in his tone. The knife was lowered from the pale throat and relief flooded the stranger’s face. When the mugger didn’t immediately move away, John took the opportunity to sweep the offender’s legs out from under him with a well placed kick. He landed on the ground hard with a decent crack. John aimed the gun at him again. “Get. The. Fuck. Out.”

The mugger scrambled to his feet before running as fast as he possibly could away from the scene. John turned to face the stranger again. The man had thick dark curls that were plastered to his head from the rain, elegant cheekbones, and wide eyes a colour that reminded him of lighting framed by dark lashes beaded by rain droplets. There was a small cut on his long pale throat that oozed blood slowly. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man asked with a voice like rumbling thunder. 

“Pardon?” John asked, momentarily caught off guard.

“Your haircut, your posture and your skills just there scream military. You’ve gotten sun, but no tan above the wrists, so you’ve been abroad but not on holiday. Military, suntan, Afghanistan or Iraq?” the man rattled off quickly as the rain continued to pour.

“Afghanistan, how-”

“How do you feel the violin?” The stranger cut in.

“I don’t mind it, why do you ask?”

“Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“Who said anything about flatmates?” John asked incredulously.

“I did. I’ve got my eye on a nice spot in central London. Meet me there at one tomorrow.”

“We’ve just met, and now you want to live in a flat together? I don’t even know your name for Christ’s sake!”

The man smirked and offered his hand. “The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221 B Baker Street. I should very much like to meet you there…”

“John. John Watson.” John said, shaking Sherlock’s hand firmly, feeling the smoothness of his skin against his own rough callouses. 

“John Watson.” Sherlock said, rolling the name through his mouth.  
“May I ask why? I mean, why you want me to move in with you?” John asked.

“In our short acquaintance, you’ve saved my life. That’s enough to be going on with, I believe,” Sherlock replied, still smirking. “Besides, I’ve been feeling foolish. You should try it.”

John snorted. “Foolish gets a knife to your throat.” Sherlock’s eyes flashed with mirth, before he winked and disappeared around the corner. “You should be more careful!” John shouted, and was only answered with a distant chuckle.

Heaving a great sigh, John strode home, without a limp and free of pain, a cheesy grin stretching his face in a strange sort of way that he hadn’t felt since his early days in the army. When he returned to his bedsit, he tucked his gun into the drawer of his nightstand without a thought and fell into a dreamless sleep.

Sherlock’s mind was racing the entire way home. John Watson. John. Ex-military, wounded in action. John who had saved his life. John who could be seeing this flat the very next day. He couldn’t contain his excitement. 

When he first caught John’s eyes against that nasty brick wall, he was nearly out of hope, but then, in the most calm and collected manner that spoke of true confidence and experience, John had removed the man from him and sent him sprinting away. He couldn’t get the image of John pointing his gun out of his mind.

John Watson. A force of nature contained by a woolen jumper. This was going to be interesting.


End file.
